count down the miles. When he was three miles out, he spotted the clearing. Nobody would spot it who didn’t know where it was. He brought back the throttle and began his fi nal descent. He landed softly on the grass and taxied the airplane back toward the cabin he had built there. Next to the cabin he had erected a ramada, which amounted to poles and a roof, a hangar without sides, which would make it impossible to spot the red airplane from the air. Once under the ramada, he spun the airplane around and shut down the engine.
He walked over to where a dozen 55-gallon steel drums sat, picked up the hose attached to one of them and refueled the airplane, using a hand pump. Best to have a full load of fuel if he needed to get out of there in a hurry.
He went into the cabin, switched on the generator and the TV
and opened a can of chili for lunch, then he sat down and watched a news channel while he ate. Then it came.
“South Florida airports have been alerted by the state police to be on the lookout for a small airplane, described as a red Cessna 182.
The pilot, whose name is Jim Vernon, is alleged to be a hired killer who shot and wounded a man in Key West two days ago.”
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That was it. As long as he didn’t land the airplane at a South Florida airport, they’d never find him. The rest of the country was his oyster, but he wasn’t ready to leave Florida just yet. He burned all his Vernon identification in the woodstove, then opened a small safe hidden under the floorboards and took out a packet of I.D.s. He selected a driver’s license and cards with a new name, Thomas Sutherland, and put the wallet in his pocket. He was cleaning up after his lunch when his cell phone rang. It was a throwaway, with no GPS chip, so he had no qualms about using it. “Yes?”
“Are you aware that the man you were sent to deal with is still active?” a voice said.
“I am. I’ll have to make another attempt.”
“The person who issued the contract has canceled it,” the voice said. “You can keep the first payment, but it’s over. Is there any reason to believe the police know who you are?”
“None,” he replied. “I’ve taken care of that.”
“I have another assignment for you, in the Northeast. Can you depart immediately? It pays better than the last one, and I already have the fi rst half.”
“I can’t leave until tonight,” he replied. “The airplane is hot in Florida. I’ll change the registration number this afternoon and get started after dark.”
“Good. Here are your instructions.”
He wrote down all the information.
“The subject lives alone and dines at home every evening around eight o’clock. A dining room window will give you the access you need, and there is considerable foliage on the property. You can drive within fifty yards, then approach the house.”
“Understood. I’ll call you when the job is complete.” He hung up and went to work. Using a hair dryer, he removed the registration number from the airplane, then affixed new numbers. He went back into the house and, consulting his collection of state and city 17 9
S t u a r t W o o d s
maps and his aviation charts, he found an unmanned airport called Johnnycake, only a few miles from his target city, then mapped out his route. He would also take along a portable GPS unit. He packed fresh clothes and put his soiled ones into the washing machine, then he put everything he needed into the airplane. He had only to wait until dark, and he used the time to phone his wife in nearby Jupiter.
“How did your trip go?” she asked.
“Not perfect, but not bad. I had to settle for half the fee.”
“We’ve got some ripe bills, you know.”
“Don’t worry, I have a new job, and our man will deliver some cash tonight.”
“Are you coming home?”
“I have to leave as soon as it’s dark, so it will be a couple of days.”
“Oh, all right. I guess we need the money.”
“I love you. Take care of yourself.”
“I love you, too.” They both hung up.